Whispering futures

Where do most people store the future they imagine as a child? Perhaps tucked away in the back of their mind – where no one else could even happen to guess as to what it is? Or ready on the tongue, resting perfectly in their mouth, until finally it opens, and surging out comes the stories of all they plan to accomplish, and the details as to how they will get there?

Heather fell somewhere in between, with her future sketched delicately into a book with a dark black cover. Though it was more open than a black corner in her mind, where so few people even remember to look after a few years, it was quietly and preciously kept tucked away from others. There was a distinctive lack of any actual plans for how she would achieve it, but it was her future, and despite a constant and irritating uncertainty, she quietly felt that it would happen. This was the only thing in her life which she dared whisper her secrets to.

The book was heavily used and stood out in her house for that reason alone. All the other books, perfectly placed on bookshelves, lacked any creases in a highly unsettling way, like no one lived there. Those books never had so much as a finger laid upon them, since her mother did not like the decor to be dirty, and most were bought either by Heather's father or were installed shortly after his death and the following redecoration of the house – her mother felt that the most useful inheritance was an inheritance spent in haste.

In contrast, Heather's book was beaten down and even more precious because of it. The book contained rough drawings that were her templates for the rigorously intricate art she imagined, with each image accompanied by several notes so she was always able to perfectly recall every detail despite the years since sketching them out. Of course, there were also the places she needed to see – the ones that upon hearing about them or seeing a picture she had immediately known that just being in that place would fill her with a peace so rare and sought after, because it would not come from calmness but from untethered joy and inspiration. And on other pages there were quick notes of books to read or random thoughts that popped up while ignoring her mother talking about things such as the new hairstyle Heather “simply had to get because it would distract everyone from her nose,” which was far too prominent according to her mother. And since these discussions occurred plenty of times throughout the years, Heather inevitably had a lot of creative discoveries too.

Heather was tuned out of such a discussion at the movement – sitting perched upon a dining chair, looking vacantly across the table at her mother, who prattled on about which clothes would better suit Heather’s figure. The conversation was characteristically brief – ended by a simple question that Heather only caught because of the change in her mother’s tone.

“Would you pass the dressing, dear?”

Salad was the bulk of every meal, and the dressing for it was well within her mother’s reach. But her mother hadn’t actually bothered to look up from her plate to check, so Heather retrieved it for her and went back to absentmindedly observing her mother’s face and delicate movements. And as her mother took a forkful of salad, Heather acknowledged how different they were.

Her mother had been beautiful as a young girl, and over the years that beauty flourished until she finally had the opportunity to become a model, but opted instead to marry Heather’s father who was heavy into oil across several continents. A rich husband guaranteed a fortune, with even a divorce guaranteeing half of one, so the stability all that black gold offered was more than enough for her mother to choose the money as a future rather than the adventure. Her mother had once said; “Society is only kind to you so long as you remain useful to it, and a woman’s use is beauty. But beauty won’t last forever, so make sure you’re prepared for once it runs out,” and she certainly followed her own advice.

Her father was dead for several years now, the result of trying to drive himself home after a long night at the bar. Not that it mattered to either Heather or her mother – by the end he spent most of his time at their apartment in the city, frequently accompanied by a woman named Portia. But her mother had gotten the money and used her extensively free schedule to keep herself looking young and thin to the point of narrowly avoiding being unhealthy – and this whittling down of oneself was a lifestyle that Heather was urged to follow.

Heather looked down at the large helping of salad upon her plate.

“Also, just so you are aware, I’ll be depositing some money into your account this week.” Heather’s head gave a loose and automatic nod. The oddity of this remark was only in that her mother never told her about depositing some money since it was done frequently for fashionable clothes and the like (money would only ever be given to that which her mother felt important).

“Is it for something in particular?”

“No dear, it’s yours. You can spend it on whatever you want,” her mother’s hands fluttered in front of herself when she said 'whatever', as if shooing the money and future purchases away, “though I was thinking perhaps some of it could go to getting your nose fixed.”

Heather's shoulders slumped downwards at this remark. In truth, Heather had no problem getting her nose finessed, but her mother was adamant that a smaller nose altogether was necessary, and as such she had refused to pay for the surgery until Heather agreed. In the meantime, Heather could count on snide remarks hinting at the supposedly disproportionate feature on her face.

Heather quickly swallowed, “I thought you wouldn’t pay for my nose.”

“Oh, I still wouldn’t! But this isn’t my money – it’s your money completely. A relative of your Grandfather just passed away and so we got a small amount. But as for the nose, just remember that there is no point in going in for surgery if you come out looking almost the same as you went in.” Heather of course disagreed, but that conversation was one that had already been had plenty of times before, whereas the money was a new and confusing topic.

Another quick swallow to remove the food from her mouth. “Who? Why did we get any money? Grandpa passed ages ago.”

A small soft hand was used to hide her mother’s chewing motion before the unnoticeable swallow. So ladylike, Heather thought. “His brother, Tom. Uncle Tom was always fairly well off, chose to marry rich I believe,” at this there was a quick and subtle movement of slightly raised eyebrows and pursed lips accompanying the flicker of eyes directed across the table at Heather and then downward – assessing and judging her daughter – then back to her own plate. “But he doesn’t have any children, so in his will he directed that his money should be divided evenly to his siblings. And in the case they were already deceased then it should be divided up among those left of his siblings’ children, and grandchildren, and so forth.” Her voice was perfectly devoid of any urgency or excitement, which meant to Heather that however much her mother had received from this as an only child, it was nowhere near the wealth that she had already inherited upon her own husband's passing, and the money was therefore insubstantial.

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand.” Which, to Heather, couldn’t have been any more substantial. “A good nose-job costs between nine and twelve thousand, so that leaves you plenty of money even after for whatever you choose to spend the money on.”

Heather mused how a better parent would have suggested almost anything besides a nose job and whatever, because a better parent would have been listening to their child about all her future aspirations. But Heather’s mother never partook in such a discussion about life goals, interests, and passions. The talk was the same monotonous talk for all her life, with topics centered around those interests that were her mother’s, and her mother’s alone, and any deviation by Heather was seen as a fleeting interest that would go away after a few years. It was expected that Heather would eventually conclude that marrying rich was the best option. So, since beauty was basically a requirement for marrying rich, her mother began to discuss all of the beautifying ways that the money could be spent.

But Heather had once again tuned out and was focused on a calm composure. Her whole life she had been wishing for such a moment that had just leaped towards her; a moment of pure joy where the constant state of loneliness, isolation, and undermining melted away to her past. It may leave marks, as all pasts do, but in Heather's mind no new ones would ever be made, because for once, her future was going to be hers. And she wanted that moment to be hers too, not weighed down by the multitude of cruel words her mother was sure to offhandedly speak up until then. Heather didn’t yet have any specific plan on where she would spend the money – but there were ideas tucked away upstairs.

Finally the meal ended, and Heather strayed away from the table. The excitement that flooded every system in her body threatened to override her calm and calculated footfalls, though she managed to make it up to her room without giving anything away. She entered the room, and closed the door with such miraculous composure, before finally letting the joy overtake her. Her hands spontaneously curled into fists and pressed to her mouth, barely managing to hide the ecstatic smile that crept across her face. Then she was beside her desk, and her hands rifled through a deep drawer searching for her book with a worn black cover. Papers that had been in the way were tossed to the floor, and Heather tumbled to the ground amongst them with the book pressed open on her outstretched legs. She haphazardly flipped through pages – not searching for one exact page or place, but rather hoping that she might stumble across one that would summon her. And finally, scrawled in smudged pencil on the inner corner of a page, was one word that stood out with perfect clarity – Nara – Japan.

Then she was on the computer searching for flights.

It wasn’t a week later that the money was deposited, and, unknown to her mother, Heather was ready for that day. There was no desire to wait around for another inheritance which would certainly be larger than the one she just received, no desire to stay and find out how happy or miserable she might be in another few years, no desire for her to miss out on life to find a husband. Just a desire to go with the $20,000 in her bank, her passport in her purse, clothes to last two weeks, and the small black notebook whose size couldn’t hint at the grand future and expansive ideas it whispered to her.

Heather stood ready at her bedroom door.

Her mother shouted up the stairs, “I’m going for a run dear,” and then in a quieter voice still meant for Heather to just barely hear, “you should start doing the same.” Then she closed the door behind her.

But for once Heather took her mother’s advice. The door that her mother closed was soon thrown open, and down the driveway, with crisp morning air to fill her lungs, she ran. And from the pages inside the bag thrown over her shoulder, she continued to hear whispers of her future.